


Reprieve

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Vassalord
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, S&M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It would be faster if Rayflo didn’t like it so much.” Chris gives in to Rayflo’s brand of temptation. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Reprieve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9214475) by [Easy_Owl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Easy_Owl/pseuds/Easy_Owl)



It would be faster if Rayflo didn’t  _like_  it so much.

That’s the problem. Chris can try and try for  _hours_  to win  _something_  from the other man, a flinch or a whine or some indication of displeasure or pain, and there is never  _anything_  but shadowed want in the black of his eyes, and that makes it  _worse_ , somehow. Chris can run him through with the narrow fencing foils that were never intended to actually puncture skin, so the movement is slow and  _must_  be painful, even for a vampire accustomed to an eternity of non-fatal injury, and Rayflo just tips his head back so the long line of his throat down to the too-open collar of his shirt makes a smooth perfect line and says, “Oh, Cherry, you are so  _affectionate_  today.”

He doesn’t even sound sarcastic.

Today Chris follows the movement of the blade, steps in towards the vampire who refuses to retreat, because he hates that he wants that white throat but he  _does_  want it, his mouth is watering at the slow pulse of blood visible under the tight-stretched skin. Rayflo tips his head sideways to look at his face through the shadow of his lashes, and when he smiles the white of his teeth catch the light.

“Hungry?” he offers. His own foil drops to the ground as he brings his fingers up to brush over his skin. It’s a familiar motion but no less tempting for its repetition. Chris is frozen in place, trying to decide to move away, to refuse temptation for tonight at least, and then Rayflo purrs, “ _Cherry_ ,” again, and the burst of anger destroys his fragile attempt at resistance, as Rayflo must have known it would. Chris reaches out to fist his robotic hand hard into the trailing ends of Rayflo’s too-long hair and pull the vampire towards him. The other man is purring in pleasure before his teeth even break the skin. Chris has a moment of irritation, self-loathing turned so desperate it spills outward, and then hot blood gushes over his tongue and for a brief, blissful moment there is no Chris anymore, just the hungry animal Rayflo made him. He knows where to bite, now, can hit the mark without even looking, and the beat of Rayflo’s heart pumps a steady stream of liquid into his mouth and down his throat. When he swallows his body  _sings_ , flooding with the lost heat of humanity for a moment while his mind capitulates to oft-denied pleasure for a moment.

Rayflo’s fingers close around Chris’s hand where it is still tight around the hilt of the fencing foil, pushes back until Chris takes the hint and draw the rest of the blade free. Rayflo sighs like he’s losing something, Chris can feel the movement of the sound in the skin under his lips, and then he drops to his knees and down, moving slowly enough that Chris can follow without breaking his hold on Rayflo’s throat.

He does let go once they hit the ground, although it takes an effort. Rayflo’s eyes follow him, half-lidded and almost invisible behind the fan of dark eyelashes, and Chris  _knows_  that everything about the other man is  _intended_  as a seduction, that his bedroom eyes are a default and not an option, but knowledge isn’t enough to entirely buffer him from the effects.

“I hate you,” he says clearly, calmly as he can manage.

Rayflo smiles and tips his head and that is a draw too, so it’s hard to keep from coming back in for more. “With my blood still on your lips, Cherry?” He reaches up to touch the corner of Chris’s mouth and Chris catches his wrist with cold metal fingers, pins it up above his head.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, still calm, and if Rayflo wanted to break free he could, Chris  _knows_  he could. But the other vampire just blinks, and smiles slow, and arches his back up in a show of struggle that lacks any real strength at all.

“You shouldn’t deprive yourself so entirely.” Chris wonders sometimes if the voice is as inadvertent as the looks. He’s heard Rayflo sound less sultry, more ordinary or, very occasionally, raw with panic, but the low resonance on his vowels is so perfectly ever-present that he thinks it can’t possibly be deliberate. “What’s the point in being immortal if you’re going to make us both suffer?”

It’s an old argument, all the flavor and heat long-lost, and Chris answers without thinking as he sets the foil aside to catch Rayflo’s other hand as it reaches for his pants. “You certainly aren’t suffering much.”

“Ah, but I  _do_  suffer.” Rayflo picks up the habitual dialogue with no pause at all. It has a certain rhythm, now, both of them reciting lines so familiar they have lost all emotional context and the edges of acting show through, timing that is  _too_  perfect and tones that are  _too_  dramatic for perfect realism. “Depriving me of my sweet Cherry is the finest torture imaginable.”

“It doesn’t count as torture if you enjoy it.” Chris wraps his fingers around both of Rayflo’s wrists, holds them in place over his head.

“Who said I enjoy it?” Rayflo protests.

Chris shifts his weight and reaches out to pick the foil back up before looking down at the other man. Rayflo is blinking deliberately slowly up at him, and when he realizes Chris is watching he trails his tongue against his lower lip. Chris angles his weight to draw his hand back and presses the tip of the fencing foil against the middle of Rayflo’s open palm.

“You do,” he says, and pushes down. Rayflo’s eyes shut, laying his lashes heavy against his cheek, and he arches up and groans hard in the back of his throat. Blood spills up from his palm, dripping against Chris’s fingers; he is sure it would be hot if he could distinguish temperature. As it is he can’t feel the warmth but the scent of blood permeates the air like perfume, heavy and rich and mouthwatering.

Chris pushes hard, driving the thin blade into the stone beneath them to pin Rayflo’s hands in place and out of the way. Rayflo opens his eyes as Chris lets go, glances up at the hilt of the weapon, and when he smiles the light catches the sharp edge of a tooth.

“You’re that opposed to me defiling you with my touch?” He tries for a pout, but Chris looks away from his face before the expression is fully formed.

“Yes.” He slides down Rayflo’s body and begins to undo the laces on the front of his pants, unfettered by the other man’s over-familiar hands. Rayflo hums and twists, but he can’t go far pinned in place by the blade and Chris’s weight against his knees. Besides, Chris is giving him what he wants. What they both want, if he’s honest with himself.

Between the loose ties and the experience of repetition, it’s a matter of seconds before Chris is pulling Rayflo’s pants free of the other man’s hips. The fabric puddles silky and thin over on itself; Rayflo’s sensuality isn’t limited to his expression and his voice and his hair. He has no compunctions about wearing silk-soft fabric and shirts half-undone, refuses to wear shoes because they’re less comfortable than bare feet. It makes him look like a painting, a statue come to life and gracing those around him with his presence.

The effect is only increased as Chris exposes more of Rayflo’s skin. He’s all long limbs and half-translucent flesh, so pale that Chris can see the tracery of veins against the muscles of his legs and over the curve of his hip. He’s hard too, as he always is by this point, and that’s worst of all, human temptation atop supernatural pull, and when Rayflo sees Chris looking he grins and tips his hips up and Chris has to look away.

“Come  _on_ , Cherry,” he purrs, and Chris can’t find a voice to chastise him for the nickname. He shuts his eyes and brings his head down before he shifts sideways, just shy of Rayflo’s erection, to catch his teeth along his favorite femoral artery and tear past that paper-thin skin. Rayflo moans again, throaty and pleased, and when he twists his hips the head of his cock catches the loose edge of Chris’s hair. The choked sound Chris makes is so muffled he can barely hear it himself, much less Rayflo, and Rayflo himself drowns him out with a gasping whine. There’s another wash of blood in the air -- he must have twisted his hands too hard against the blade, or maybe it’s just at this angle there’s not much for Chris to catch  _but_  the spicy-hot of Rayflo’s blood.

His thirst is starting to abate, the burn against his throat cooled by the heat of his Master’s blood. Chris pulls away, pulls a sleeve over his mouth and licks his lips. The sleeve comes away bloody, and when he looks up Rayflo is still gazing at him, mouth open and lips damp and Chris wants to kiss him, like he  _always_  wants to kiss him. Instead he looks down and drops his head to close his still-damp mouth around Rayflo’s erection.

Rayflo  _purrs_ , satisfaction spilling out into the air, and Chris closes his eyes and lets himself forget, for a minute, what he is and who made him this and what he owes and what he is owed. His mouth is full of metallic burn and salt, and his hands can’t feel heat but his mouth can, and Rayflo is hot and hard against his tongue and his lips. The other man is moaning at the movement of Chris’s mouth against him and he has gone as relaxed as Chris ever knows him to be, ceding all control over to the younger man and his less restrained actions.

This part is easy, with Rayflo’s blood threading through Chris’s veins and Rayflo’s reactions loud in his artificial ears, and it’s the farthest thing from purity and chastity, but just at the moment Chris can accept that, in this brief limbo between his reality and his desires. Rayflo goes tense, for just a moment, and Chris holds him down with his unfeeling hands, and when the older man comes it’s thick and hot on Chris’s tongue like blood. 

Rayflo’s eyes are shut when Chris comes back up, so he can take a minute to look at the sharp-edged beauty of his master’s face without the taunting invitation of the other’s gaze to distract him. His lips are still parted, eyelashes thick and dark against that eerie white skin, cheekbones sharp and high. When Chris sighs Rayflo opens his eyes, and the invitation isn’t painful, for once. Chris leans down to brush their lips together, and when Rayflo’s eyes shut his lashes brush over Chris’s cheek.

There is silence for a moment. Rayflo’s tongue catches the edge of Chris’s lip, sweeps along the line of salt and iron there, and then Chris pulls away and reaches for the handle of the ruined fencing foil.

“Master,” he says as he pulls it free. Rayflo hisses at the slide of the blade against his skin, then reaches up to touch Chris’s face with his bleeding palms.

“Chris,” he whispers, and Chris shuts his eyes, holds onto the moment as long as he can before reality pulls him back.


End file.
